


Pounded by a Yeti who stole my Social Security Card

by sleepydeaky



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Chuck Tingle inspired, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Monsters, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepydeaky/pseuds/sleepydeaky
Summary: It's not the route John had ever thought he'd take but self-publishing his own niche gay erotica has let him save up enough money to take a Creative Writing Degree at University. Little does he know that his biggest fan, Roger, is on the same programme as him.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thenightdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thenightdreams/gifts).



> I know this isn't exactly what you asked for (or at all) but I have so many good memories of talking about this cursed au with you that I hope that you might maybe enjoy it <3

John’s fingers are starting to ache but he pays that no attention; the words are flowing from him so easily today that he can’t even think about stopping, not even when his body insists. 

_Ben reaches forward with slick fingers to grip the Yeti-man’s…._

_To grip the Yeti-man’s…_

He thinks for a moment, tipping his head back and staring up at the ceiling of his room. He’s got little glow-in-the-dark stars pasted up there in littled clustered approximations of constellations and tells himself that they help him think. John’s not sure whether they do or not but they are certainly comforting. He sighs watching their dull green light and runs through the little erotic theasurus that he keeps in his head.

_Pounding? Tingling? Throbbing? Pulsing?_

Outside the sun has long since set and the night has drawn in, John’s face is illuminated only by the glow of his laptop and his body feels tired and heavy, ready to flop down onto his mattress and sleep. Still, he mulls over the words in his head, working away at the problem at hand. The creative process has never been like that for him, although in some ways it would be easier if it was more like the circuit boards and components that he’d grown up with. Those were logical at least but there was no simple formula for the way words fit together, for the ideas locked up in his head. Maybe that was why he’d had a change of heart from an Engineering Degree to Creative Writing.

His mother has always been supportive, even though she hadn’t agreed with him taking an arts course instead of something but well… he can’t exactly admit what he really does to her; he’d rather die that let his sweet, older mother read about his weird (read: super fucking weird) sexual fantasies that he was publishing on the internet for thousands to read (and mock and ridicule and some to adore). That he’s already perfectly financially stable, thank you very much.

_Ben reaches forward with slick fingers to grip the Yeti-man’s huge throbbing cock_

_‘Please Yeti-man,’ Ben says breathlessly. ‘My tight hole is yearning for your huge throbbing cock to fill me up.’_

John shivers at the picture his own words are painting in his head, a kind of narcissistic feedback loop of his own darkest desires. It’s ironic really - someone who writes erotica for a good enough living to have funded his own spot to study creative writing at University (even if it’s a few years later than most), someone who has a blue checkmark Twitter account to show for it, being a virgin. John would laugh if it did tug at some deep rooted anxiety inside of not being good enough, of being alone and unattractive, didn’t grip around his chest and choke up his lungs every time even he thought about it. 

He takes a few, well-needed, steadying breaths to let the panic subside a little before he leans back in his chair and lets his hand wander down to the zipper on his jeans. The relief is enough to take the edge off a little as he reaches for the lotion on his desk, liberally slicking his fingers before he reaches down to palm himself. It’s going to ruin his boxers doing it like this but now that he’s started John’s desperation to scratch the itch that’s tightening low down in his stomach is too strong to stop. They need to go in the wash anyway.

He groans at the first touch of his own hand, his teeth sinking into his chapped lips - trying to hold the sound in even though there’s nobody around to hear it. He’s embarrassed and ashamed, so fucking ashamed, at how much his own writing turns him on - his strange, twisted little fantasies that the rest of the internet, outside of his dedicated readers, seem to think are some sick joke. 

Instead of dampening his arousal, however, the shame sends John’s heart racing and his blood pumping and every nerve feeling like it’s on fire with simple want. It’s coiling tighter and tighter as his hand moves faster, more sloppy and desperate and his mouth finally falls open - gasping for air and moaning wordlessly. He strokes himself just how he likes, rough and fast and paying particular attention to the head where he’s most sensitive. 

God he wishes more than anything that some half-man, half-monster was getting him off - pinning him down and forcing him to submit, rather than himself. Or, y’know, anyone else at all...

John imagines that a half-human monster’s hands would be huge, rough, calloused and nowhere near this fast but gentle pace he’s set for himself - engulfing his entire length easily in their palm… He comes over his hand and jeans before he knows what is happening, a moan forcing it’s way from his throat and his thoughts filled with larger than life hands wrapped around his cock rather than his own.

John flops back in his chair, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. It was all going to change next week, when he started his first of University. John was going to become a real writer, to learn how to really write and then maybe he could publish some more… serious fiction under a different pen name. And maybe makes some friends too.

It was going to be fine. It was going to be great. He would make it and not completely stick out around all the students years younger than him who were just getting their first taste of freedom. All he has to do is finish this novel and then focus on moving into dorms. Like that, in it's self, will be a piece of cake. 


	2. Chapter 2

John already feels lost.

  
  


His room is nice enough, a little drafty but bright with one big window in the corner. The window only opens a few inches when he tries it, a safety latch securing it so that he can’t do anything too stupid like testing his powers of flight whilst drunk. John has never lived so high up before and just looking down makes his head spin.

  
  


He’s only ventured into the flat’s shared kitchen for a moment to find a cupboard to shove his crockery, cutlery, several tins of baked beans and a box of tea bags into as well as a spot in the shockingly small fridge, it’s comfortable enough and clean if a little impersonal. But it’s nice enough.

  
  


Even so, John’s stomach still twists uncomfortably, swirling with nerves. He’s not used to living with other people, having moved out at 18 when he went to work (and later managed to sustain himself with his writing alone) and lived alone in his own place since then. This whole thing is about learning though, pushing himself past the comfortable walls he’s put around his life and returning better than he was. Right now though, John would rather do anything else than have to face the pain of actually interacting with anyone.

  
  


He feels so pathetic.

  
  


But John’s still got one or two things left in his car that he’d had to leave what feels like miles away, in the car park closest to the Campus Library so he can’t let himself dwell on it for too long. The walk to the car park is uphill and John’s breathing heavily by the time he gets there, feeling like he’s walked double the distance weaving around the groups of students and their parents as the sun beats down on his skin, the last dregs of summer still clinging on before Autumn returns. 

  
  


John feels like he must stick out like a sore thumb like everyone else can tell that he’s not only 3 years older than them but also some weird loner who likes to write outrageous erotica for a living. He ducks his head, feeling his cheeks heat with shame and embarrassment as he tries to hide behind a curtain of his hair, rushing as much as he can without tripping and falling flat on his face or knocking into someone, to get back to his shared flat. 

  
  


The door takes a moment before it slams shut behind him when John finally makes it back inside, the hinge is a little sticky with disuse from the summer. There had been two groups waiting at the lift so John had grudgingly taken the stairs and now his legs are aching and his cheeks feel hot from exhortation, John imagines that he must resemble a sweaty tomato. 

  
  


He’s ready to collapse onto the bed (it’s his bed, he has to keep reminding himself, at least for the next year) and take a nap, resolving to start jogging again tomorrow to get some of his stamina back up again, when John realises there’s somebody else stood in the hallway. 

  
  


‘Hi,’ he mumbles, trying to force his gaze up from the carpet, very aware of how much of a mess he must look. Honestly, it looks like it could do with a clean - someone has already tracked mud all over it and there are a few suspicious-looking stains along the wall.

  
  


‘Hi, I’m Roger,’ the other guy, Roger, says - his voice simultaneously higher and raspier than John had been expecting. 

  
  


‘John,’ he says, finally meeting Roger’s gaze as his lips twitch upwards into a strained smile. He’s starting to feel the strain of being a lonely artist for so many years. Conversations are hard… what exactly does he talk about anyway? He could go on for hours about writing or music or electronics but that would surely scare Roger off faster than if John had said nothing. Still, a part of John hopes that the conversation won’t end there, not just yet. He feels awkward talking to Roger but John hangs onto the simple comfort it gives him of interacting with another human being, like a rock in a sea of unfamiliar faces. 

  
  


And as John studies Roger’s face, he realises that he’s blushing for a different reason - not entirely different from embarrassment but _entirely_ inappropriate. 

  
  


Firstly, Roger would make an excellent protagonist of one of his novels - his face soft and pretty, almost androgynous when paired with the big blue eyes and soft, tousled blonde hair. Maybe tousled is too kind of a descriptor on John’s part, a little romantic (bedhead would be closer, truthfully) but John is allowed a little artistic license. Still, John feels terrible for thinking it about someone he’s just met. 

  
  


Secondly, Roger hasn’t made a run for it - giving up on John’s shyness as too difficult, too much effort for no reward. John’s chest feels warm with emotion and he manages to meet Roger’s gaze, propping his box of books on his hip.

  
  


‘So, what are you studying?’ Roger asks.

  
  


‘Creative Writing,’ John replies easily before kicking himself that he hadn’t asked Roger. He’s blown it, this could be his last chance to…

  
  


‘Oh really? Me too! It’ll be nice to have a familiar face,’ Roger says, cutting through the downwards spiral of John’s thoughts. John feels the tightness that’s been crushing around his chest loosen, just a little. It helps that Roger is smiling like he’s genuinely glad to be talking to John. Something warm is spreading around John’s body and he feels himself relax, bit by bit. ‘The other’s and I were thinking of going out to the Student’s Union tonight and having a few drinks. Would you like to come?’

  
  


‘I’d… yes, I’d love to! Thank you,’ John says, a little too quickly but he can’t help himself. He’s being included! He won’t have to spend his first night alone in the darkness of his room! He can practically feel his heart sing with joy as his lips break into a smile, the muscles in his cheeks aching with how wide his smile is. 

  
  


Maybe it won’t be so bad after all. He can talk to Roger some more, they can become friends (or something more, his treacherous heart tells him but surely that’s too much to hope for).

It’ll be better in the Student’s Union bar anyway, John always feels more confident when his head is buzzing pleasantly from a few drinks and there’s the heavy bassline of a song rattling his bones. 

  
  


‘Great!’ Roger says, returning John’s smile easily. ‘I guess I’d better unpack but I’ll see you then!’

  
  


John nods, still smiling with his lips pressed together around the joy that feels like is emanating from every one of his pore’s. He turns back towards the door of his room and steps inside. As soon as he hears the click of the door shutting John leans back on the door of his room, books clutched to his chest, smiling like an idiot - wide and unselfconscious.

  
  


He’s made a friend. He’s going out tonight. Things are going to be okay… as long as he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t mention the niche gay erotica that he writes for a living. John’s blood goes cold at the very thought of Roger who’s likeable and cool and fashionable, finding out what a weird, horny nerd John is. He can imagine, as clear as if Roger was standing in front of him now, the look of disgust settling over Roger’s handsome features - his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth turned downwards at the corners and worst of all his gaze fixed onto John, burning through John’s skin. 

  
  


John sets his books down on his little desk and stares out of the window for a moment, at the crowds of people below moving back and forth like a nest of ants, resolving himself. He can bury the shameful secret deep enough, nobody has to know except for him and John can be the perfect double agent. 


End file.
